


Imminent Disaster

by subjxctsixteen (astxrwar)



Category: Assassin's Creed - All Media Types
Genre: Dirty Talk, F/M, Prompt Fill, anyway this is a sinfic don't read, but haytham's only mentioned like... once, but it's not really?? it's mostly dirty talk, hella dirty talk, speaking of, there's a little dubcon, twice?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-22
Updated: 2017-01-22
Packaged: 2018-09-19 06:38:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,751
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9422792
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/astxrwar/pseuds/subjxctsixteen
Summary: Shay agrees to take on an apprentice. He doesn't agree to the fucking disaster which follows, revolving mostly around the fact that said apprentice is really fucking pretty and he's an asshole who lacks all self control.





	

**Author's Note:**

> As per a request posted on my Haytham fic:

 

It was Haytham’s idea for Shay to take on an apprentice.

He disliked it at first, the thought of some kid following him everywhere and getting in his business and _god forbid_ fucking up his missions, but--

He sees her for the first time and he meets her for the first time and his mind changes almost instantly.

She’s such a pretty little thing, he thinks, with pink, pouty lips and wide eyes and smooth, soft skin; she’s _smart_ and she’s _skilled_ and she’s  _obedient,_ she complies with his wishes easily and basically _lives_ off of his praise.

Jesus, she’s kind of perfect.

It’s like Haytham wanted her to be exactly what Shay _doesn’t_ need.

Because it’s not _right_ and it’s not _fair_ and it has to be some sort of cruel cosmic joke that she’s so goddamn beautiful but also so fucking _young._ They get along well, she trusts him and Shay doesn’t mind her company, not really; she’s shy and quiet and particularly soft-spoken in comparison to his brashness and his personal brand of troublemaking. But it’s hard, when he’s teaching her or guiding her or even just being close to her because sometimes her body brushes against him in a way that makes his senses flicker to full awareness and his body feel tense and _christ,_ sometimes he thinks she does it on purpose.

He ignores the feelings, because it’s the _right_ thing to do. He might be a liar and a traitor and he might have killed nearly all of his old friends in the name of this whole _Templar_ thing but he’s not that stupid and he’s not that _awful_ and he does, contrary to popular belief, still have a fucking conscience.

Until suddenly he doesn’t.

Suddenly he’s drunk and horny and it’s around midnight and she’s asleep down the hall and in the privacy and the safety of his own bedroom he admits that he _wants_ her, he wants to watch her come and make her come and touch her and hold her and _fuck_ her, god, yeah--

He doesn’t hate himself even if he should, and he takes his cock in his hand he bites his lip he chokes back a groan and he strokes, _faster harder rougher_ , and he calls out for her when he comes-- _Ah, (Name),_ **_Christ,_ ** _fuck--_

Hus breathing slows down, body slowly relaxing and he waits for any sort of semblance of shame, but it doesn’t come.

 _Shit,_ he thinks dimly.

He’s screwed.

Yeah.

_God._

  


So--

Six excruciatingly long weeks pass by.

Nothing happens.

Nothing happens because Shay doesn’t _allow_ anything to happen because, _God,_ she would hate him and Haytham would _kill_ him and it would be so, _so_ bad even if, possibly, wildly, she wants him even half as badly as he wants her.

She’s a fucking _poison_ , basically, because she’s too young and he’s too old and he can’t fucking _help_ his attraction towards her, not with the way she clings to his arm and leans into him when he cracks a shitty joke or the way she watches him admiringly when he teaches her or how she absolutely fucking _beams_ at the smallest amount of his praise. It’s too fucking _much_ and he’s not a saint or anything, not even close, so he pretty much _knows_ that eventually he’ll end up making a terrible decision about this entire thing.

And eventually he proves himself right.

They’ve been working together for nearly a year and he’s barely kept control of himself. When that finally changes it’s nearly midday and he’s already slightly drunk and no matter how hard he tries not to, he keeps glancing over to her, keeps thinking that she’s _so_ pretty, laughing for him, smiling for him, all bright and beautiful. And it’s not his fault that he likes her so much, not when she’s fucking _perfect_ in every conceivable way, except it totally, completely is.

“C’mon, then,” Shay urges, grin crooked and scar stretched across his face and eyes maybe a little too warm. He has a hip flask of brandy and it’s half empty and he shouldn’t be around her when he’s like this because he’s not really the most responsible drunk, but it’s already too late. “We’ve got training t’do.”

She pushes herself off of the stone ledge of the window sill where she’d been sitting, weight rested on her palms and her legs crossed at the ankles with a pretty little smile, and she follows him up through the stairwell. Shay brings her into his room with a flimsy excuse that he can hardly remember and when the door slams shut behind them with a thunk of wood and squeal of metal hinges, he actually realizes where they are, he glances over at the bed and remembers all the times he’d sat there thinking about her and suddenly the air feels too warm.

She’s never been in his room before, he realizes. She shouldn’t be here now.

Instead of fixing this and telling her to leave, making up a lie and tells her to sit on the edge of the bed. She does, of course, because she trusts him. He’s never given her a reason not to, although there are plenty. Shay licks his lips and rakes his eyes down over her body, not really slow enough to be noticeable-- the training uniform doesn’t show much skin, but he can see the curve of her collarbones, the soft, inviting expanse of her neck--

Shay swallows and his throat feels tight.

“Close your eyes,” he says, not really an order, but she obeys it like it is, and it sends a wonderful sort of thrill through his stomach. _Jesus._

 _“_ What are we doing today, sir?” She asks, kicking her legs back and forth where she sits, impatient, with her hands clasped tightly in her lap.

“Told you t’call me Shay,” he says, making sure she can hear the smile in his voice-- god knows she hates even thinking she’s disappointed him, not like she even could, god, not at this point. “An’ you’ll know soon enough, love.”

She smiles at the pet name and nods eagerly; he can see how her eyelids are fluttering like she wants to open them, wants to see him, but not quite as much as she wants to follow his instructions. He can stare at her openly, now, because she won’t notice. He licks his lips.

Shay sits down in a padded leather armchair across from the bed, makes sure his movements are deliberately loud enough for her to hear. The exercise they’re doing is familiar, it’s one he remembers doing with his mentor and he remembers how much he hated it, but she doesn’t seem to mind; not yet, anyway.

“Tell me what you can hear,” he says softly. “Where am I?”

Her brow furrows, expression becoming so sweetly curious that he wants to fucking kiss her. He could. “Why?”

Jesus, he could.  
“Practice,” he responds, fingers tapping absently against the carved wooden armrest, polish chipped and worn along the edge. The air is thick and every word he speaks feels sharp and stilted. “Y’gotta be able to figure out what’s goin’ on around you. Can’t always rely on your eyes.”

She nods, understanding, and adopts an adorable expression of utmost concentration. “Yes sir.”

“Shay, love,” he reminds, taking a sip from his hip flask-- it sears his throat going down, settles warm in his stomach like the embers of a low burning fire. “Just Shay.”

She flushes pink and nods, crossing and uncrossing her ankles as she shifts around on the edge of his bed. Shay stands up, trails his fingers over the edge of the bed dangerously close to where her right hand lies splayed against the sheets, supporting her weight-- but he doesn’t touch her, or he can’t bring himself to touch her, or both. He makes sure his footsteps are muffled and quiet, but she still tracks the movement with a slight turn of her head, brow furrowed and focused. God, he thinks, she’s so pretty and god he wants to touch her so badly and--

In hindsight, all of this was an _awful_ idea.

“You moved,” she says, voice unnaturally soft, as if she doesn’t want to disturb the heavy, almost suffocating quiet of the room. “You’re by the closet?”

“That a question or an answer?” Shay says, trying to keep his voice steady. She needs to be more _confident,_ god, she’s smart and skilled and strong and yet so fucking dependent on his approval-- and he’d be lying if he said he didn’t like it maybe just a little, if he didn’t enjoy how much she needs him.

“You’re by the closet,” she says, stronger this time, and Shay smiles even though he knows she can’t see it.

“Aye,” he affirms, and then he moves again, and she follows him with a turn of her head. He takes a drink from his hip flask and it’s nearly empty; by now he’s pleasantly buzzed and he’s finding himself staring at her and watching her mouth and soon there are thoughts in his head about what it would be like to kiss her. He wonders what she would taste like and what she would sound like and he thinks about sucking on her lovely bottom lip until it’s red and rosy, and slipping his tongue into her mouth, keeping her close and still with his hands in her hair--

 _Christ,_ he thinks, a little frantically, trying to get a hold of himself-- he just has to wait until this is over so he can go rub one out and pretend he’s not thinking about her, but he needs to fucking _stop._

“You’re by the window,” she says, “And- I can feel a breeze. Is the window open?”

“Aye,” he says again, slightly shaken by just how much effort it takes to keep his voice from slipping into something low and nearly seductive. “Good instincts.”

She hesitates and squirms a little on the edge of the bed. “Is something wrong?”

He swallows and he licks his lips and he takes half a step forward, the action aborted and cut short as if a part of his brain is still functioning enough to realize that this is a bad idea.

Shay can see the very tip of her tongue, small and pink and wet, as it darts across her bottom lip and suddenly he’s wondering what her pretty little mouth would feel like on his cock and _fuck_ he crushes that train of thought as fast as he possibly can.

“No, love,” he answers, words low and rumbling in the empty space between his ribs. “Nothing’s wrong. You’re doin’ good.”

She beams at the praise and Shay inhales, exhales, inhales again, tries to get his goddamn dick under control because he’s half-hard and more than half-drunk and he can definitely recognize the beginnings of a disaster when he sees one.

She bites her lip, rolls it between her teeth, expression curious.

Shay takes another step forward.

She doesn’t hear him or she isn’t paying attention or _something_ because she doesn’t react at all.  

She’s just so _pretty._

He’s almost trancelike in the way he reaches out to brush his fingertips over her knee, and she jolts and shivers in surprise at the contact, expression slightly confused, not realizing just how close they had become. Shay says nothing, and she says nothing, and neither of them move, neither of them so much as _breathe_ because this has, he realizes, crossed a line, become somehow more intimate than friendly touches and shoulder taps and the flimsy excuses he’d used over the past year just to be close to her. This is different because her lips are slightly parted and her expression is confused but not frightened and the air is charged with crackling static electricity, sharp and hot and bright, and one wrong move could potentially shatter the trust that he’d established between them.

His fingers skim along the exposed skin of her thigh below her skirt, not quite high enough to be considered wrong but not nearly appropriate, either, and his movements are slow as he pushes her knees apart and steps into the space between her thighs, rubbing small, soothing circles over her skin as if he’s waiting for her to come to her senses and bolt.

“Keep goin’,” he whispers, voice rough and accent thick and tone slightly desperate. “We’re not done yet.”

And for a second Shay is certain that speaking aloud had ruined it and that he’d misjudged the situation and that any second she would move away and push him back and tell him to stop--

She doesn’t.

A part of him wishes she would have but a larger part is painfully glad she didn’t.

“You’re in front of me,” she starts, voice soft and small and quiet. “I can-- I can hear your breathing.”

He inhales, screws his eyes shut for a second and then breathes out slowly. “Not what you hear,” he whispers, palms smoothing over her skin, soft and warm and delicate compared to his own. “What you feel, love.”

“Shay--”

“C’mon,” he urges, and her eyelashes flutter like she wants to look at him but refuses to disobey his earlier command as she squirms below him, moving even closer to the edge of the bed and closer to the warmth of his body--

“Callouses,” she breathes softly. “Your hands are warm. You-- there’s a scar on your left palm, i think-- it’s rough.”

Her words falter as Shay lets one of his hands cup her jaw, guiding her chin up, thumb smoothing over her cheek, and she seems mesmerized by the action. Nothing has happened yet to prevent them from forgetting about this; they could ignore it and pretend it never happened and they’d just go back to the way they were. It isn’t too late, there’s still time for him to stop and do the right thing--

Shay leans in and brushes her hair out of her face and kisses her so fucking gently that it _aches._

She doesn’t respond, not at first, paralyzed by shock and uncertainty and inexperience, and then she kisses him back, and it’s sweet and it’s clumsy and her hands curl in the collar of his coat like she needs something to ground her in the wake of his desire.

Shay pulls back.

Her eyes stay closed.

“Tell me how it feels,” he asks softly, looking for a sign to keep going-- because he wants more and he doesn’t want to take it; he wants her to give it to him willingly.

“Good,” she whispers, flushed and breathless, hesitating as if she’s not quite sure how to vocalize her thoughts. “I don’t-- I’ve never--”

Shay blinks slowly as the words register. Oh, _shit_ , his mind screams, suddenly guilty at the realization of what that means because beyond crossing a very important line he also had no idea that--

“You’ve never kissed somebody before,” He breathes, awestruck and a little smug that he’d been her first-- and he’s also kind of disgusted with himself, too. “ _Christ.”_

And he has to stop now, he thinks, because that’s a delicate business, being somebody’s first anything-- and he knows she wouldn’t want it to be like this, she’d regret it and regret _him_ and _jesus_ he’s not sure if he could handle that-- but just before he moves back she licks her lips and she carefully pulls him closer by the lapels of his coat and he feels an equal amount of lust and longing stir in his stomach as _she_ kisses _him_ this time, chaste and brief, and in that precise moment the remaining shreds of his self restraint just _shatter._

“You’ve got no idea what you’re doin’ to me, love,” he says, slightly strangled.

She tries to reply but her words are cut off and she chokes back a gasp as his hands move up under her skirt almost against his own volition, and his fingertips skim across the front of her panties and they’re _lace_ oh _christ_ and she’s-- she’s wet, god, desperately, terribly wet--

Her eyes snap open and meet his and they’re wide and innocent and pure and _what is he doing,_ goddamnit, he needs to _stop._

“ _Fuck,”_  Shay chokes out, the noise strangled and stilted and _unavoidably_ desperate-- it feels like a fever dream, fantastic and impossible, and he’s acutely aware of her shallow breathing and the soaked fabric of her underwear and how tightly his other hand is gripping her thigh, pressing in bruises with his fingers-

“Close your eyes,” he says, words spilling out almost against his will, and she obeys immediately.

The seconds seem to drag on for _years._

He moves his hand slowly, so slowly that she has all the time in the world to stop him or to move back or to tell him he’s _wrong_ for doing this. She doesn’t, and his hand slips into her underwear and she shivers and makes a sound almost like a whimper when his fingers brush across her skin.

“Show me what you like, love.

“Shay--”

“ _Show me.”_

She shudders at the command and her brow furrows and her uncertainty is nearly palpable as she places her hand over his and urges him to make small, light circles over her clit--

“Oh, _”_ she gasps, “ _Oh_.”

“Yeah?” Shay asks, breathless and awestruck and so hard it fucking _hurts,_ shit, “Yeah? Like that?”

And his hands are much bigger, his fingers are larger and rougher and Shay imagines that the sensation must be entirely different as he rubs gently and her eyelids flutter and her thighs tremble-- it must be unlike anything she’s ever experienced before, better and _more_ than when it’s just her alone in her room with the door closed and the lights off and her hand clapped over her mouth to stifle her moans. And Shay knows he shouldn’t let himself consider the possibility, but he still wonders if maybe sometimes she’d touch herself and think of him or think of how _good_ he could make her feel or think of how much _better_ he’d be than any of the fumbling, clumsy boys her age--

He’s no boy, and he knows this, just as he knows she’s not quite a woman yet, just as he knows this is not the way a teacher should touch his student, but he reasons that he’s already going to hell anyway, after everything he’s done. And now that it’s too late to go back and he has his fucking hand up her skirt and he’s painfully hard and she’s so wet that it’s making his fingers slick against her skin, he finds himself thinking that even if this is wrong he _never_ wants it to stop.

He moves his hand down, just a little, and she whines and squirms as the focus is shifted away from her clit.

“Shay,” she breathes, not quite pleading, but close enough to make him sigh at the sound of his name, so soft and gentle and _perfect--_

“Yeah? You want somethin’?” He whispers back, rubbing his fingers down over her cunt, pressing gently, testing just how far she’s willing to go.

She rocks her hips forward a little at the pressure and his breath just fucking _falters,_ shit shit _shit,_ he ignores his moral compass and pushes one finger inside of her and she’s tight and warm and wet and the sound she makes at the intrusion is _gorgeous--_

“You all right?” He asks, stroking her hair back from her head with his free hand-- her eyes are still closed, just like he’d told her, and he feels pride at just how obedient she is. “You’re fine, yeah?”

“Yes, sir,” she breathes-- the arm supporting her weight on the bed is trembling, he notices, and her breathing is shallow, a delicious cherry-red flush spreading slowly across her cheeks as she rocks into his hand and mumbles “Please, Shay--”

And _Jesus,_ does that do goddamn awful things to him.

“Fuck,” he curses, “Fuck, (Name), _fuck,_ gonna fucking _ruin_ me.”

He tries to ignore the way his voice wavers, and instead of actually addressing it he starts to fuck her with his fingers and she just _melts_ in his hands, her mouth falls open and she _moans_ and _godfuckingdamnit--_

“Shit,” he grits out, and he stops touching her and he yanks down her skirt and her panties and tosses them aside with a level of roughness he didn’t know he was actually capable of. He’s not sure what he’s doing yet, he’s not exactly sure what he wants to do besides make her come for him over and over and _over,_ jesus, and before he really even has time to think about it he pushes her back on the bed.

She makes a sound almost like a gasp and opens her eyes but shay growls _keep ‘em shut_ and she complies instantly-- and then it doesn’t even matter anyway because he’s kneeling down and spreading her thighs wide fucking open, he’s staring at her cunt and thinking _jesus christ_ because he wants to know what she _tastes_ like and she’s a fucking _teenager,_ what the _fuck_ is wrong with him--

“D’you want me to make you come?” He hears himself ask, and his eyes are dark and lidded and his thoughts are fuzzy and he knows she can hear the intention in his voice when he asks, half a promise and half a _threat,_ really, if he’s being honest with himself.

She nods, a microscopic bob of her head, but it’s not fucking good enough and Shay’s already crossed enough lines that he doesn’t care to stop himself at this point, “Yeah? Tell me what you want.”

She squirms, pants _no no no Shay I can’t say it,_ but he doesn’t listen, he presses sloppy kisses over her stomach and growls, “Tell me, love, you want my fingers inside you again? You know you do. Or-- You want me to touch you? Make you come like that?”

He moves down in between her legs and grabs her thighs and nearly grins at how the muscles tremble as his breathing speeds up--

“Maybe you just want me to eat out your pretty little cunt.”

She makes a sound almost like a squeak and instantly claps a hand over her mouth-- and she’s embarrassed, he knows, there’s a bright flash rapidly spreading across her cheeks, but it doesn’t stop him or slow him down in the slightest.

“You’re so wet,” he growls, the timbre of his voice low and absolutely _filthy,_ “so fuckin’ _wet, christ_. Is that what you want, then? You ever felt a man’s tongue before? It feels good, promise, just let me show you.”

“ _Shay,_ ” she mumbles, squirming aimlessly, like she’s not quite sure whether she wants to move away or get closer, and he can tell that she’s deliciously close to giving in to him, begging him to make good on all of his promises--

He can’t fucking wait any longer, though.

She never explicitly asks, no, but Shay is good at reading people and good at figuring out what they want before they even know it themselves and he’s perfectly aware that she isn’t going to tell him to stop when he pulls her legs apart and delves in with his mouth and _fuck_ he tastes salt and skin and she makes a beautiful sort of choked out _moan_ as he licks a long, wet stripe up her slit--

“Taste so fucking _good,_ love,” he rumbles, and pushes two fingers inside of her and runs his tongue up and around and over her clit until her hands reach down to tighten in his hair and she begs for _more more more please Shay_ **_please_ ** _\--_

“Yeah, _fuck,”_ he groans, curling his fingers up and moving them in, out, in, and her answering moan is shattered and helpless and before he’s entirely aware of what he’s doing he takes his other hand and clumsily unbuckles his belt and runs his palm down over the length of his cock and oh god he’s painfully fucking hard and he just wants to make her _come._ There’s never been a time when he was ever this obsessed with somebody else’s pleasure before but of course he is with her because she’s _perfect_ and he wants to make sure her first time is equally as perfect because she deserves absolutely nothing less.

Her hands tighten in his hair and he fucks her open with his fingers and his tongue and his chin is sticky and his eyes are dark and his words are slurred and filthy as he hitches her leg over his shoulder and pulls her closer. “So fuckin gorgeous,” he murmurs, “Pretty little girl like you, you’re so wet for me. Look at yourself, you’re begging for it.”

He moves up and he traces the tip of his tongue over her clit and watches her shiver and feels the muscles in her thighs tense and when he looks up he sees her with her head tipped back and her eyes still, _still_ closed just like he’d told her to and, god, she just looks so fucking _ruined_ like this with her innocence gone, and that shouldn’t turn him on as much as it does.

When she comes, it’s _beautiful._

Her lips part and her breath catches and dissolves into a moan and her hands tighten in his hair so hard that it sends a prickling sensation of almost-pain slinking down his spine that makes him shiver and groan as he continues to touch her and tease her until her body is trembling and pliant from the aftershocks. It feels like a fucking _dream_ because he can taste her on his tongue and he can feel her body under his hands and it has to be _unreal_ because stuff like this just doesn’t happen to him, _ever,_ not like this--

Neither of them speak for what feels like years. Shay fumbles with his trousers and kicks them to the floor and he’s so fucking _hard_ and she’s so wet and her eyes are completely locked on him as he takes his cock in his hand and strokes, closes his eyes and exhales and trembles a little at just how much he _needs_ this--

“Shay,” she mumbles, still focused on the slow languid movement of his hand, like she can’t look away even if she wanted to, mesmerized by what she’d done to him, how easily she’d torn him to fucking _pieces--_

“Tell me you want it,” he rasps, voice rough and deep and _sure,_ and he feels a flicker of pride at the way it makes her shiver on the bed. “Tell me you want my cock.”

She gasps, bites her lip, looks up at him from beneath her eyelashes--

“Oh, no no no Shay I can’t--” she says, a little senselessly, still trembling from her orgasm, and if Shay were in a better state of mind he would stop-- hell, no, if he were a better man he would stop, but he isn’t a better man. He isn’t even a good one.

“Wanna hear you beg for it,” he says, moving closer, kneeling on the edge of the bed and then placing his hands on either side of her head, resting his weight across her body, his dick sliding up between her legs, teasing, and it takes all of his self control to keep himself from just _fucking_ her--

Her hesitancy doesn’t fade as much as it gets overwhelmed by something dangerously, treacherously close to _desire,_ something new and exciting and different for her, and something that _he_ made her feel, only him, _always_ him--

“Please,” she says timidly.

“Not good enough,” Shay breathes, demanding eye contact. “Not fucking good enough, c’mon, love, you can do better, tell me how bad you want my cock. Tell me how bad you want me to fuck you. I want you begging for it.”

When she says _please_ this time it’s a little more desperate, and she spreads her legs and he teases her with the head of his cock but doesn’t push in, waits for her to give in to him the way she always does.

“ _Shay_ ,” she says, so fucking _needy,_ god, like she was made for this, made for _him--_ “Please, I want-- I want--”

“Yeah?” he asks, baring his teeth in a not-quite smile, and it feels like he’s standing at the edge of a fucking cliff as he waits for her to speak, like the ground might give out beneath him at any moment as the seconds drag on, and on, and _on--_

“I want you to fuck me, please, Shay, _please,_ ” she pleads, and it’s barely more than a whisper, but it’s _enough._

“Fuck, _fuck,”_ he curses, and then he drags her into a kiss that’s mostly tongue, filthy and slow, and he pushes in-- carefully, _gently,_ he doesn’t want to hurt her-- and as soon as she tenses up he stops moving and it takes all of his willpower just to give her a moment to adjust because he needs this so fucking bad--

“Oh,” she breathes, squirming a little, urging him to move and grinding her hips down on his cock and _fuck,_ she’s so perfect sometimes Shay wonders if she’s even _real._

“Yeah?” he asks, rocking forwards just a little, testing, and she tightens around him in the most _delicious_ way and the moan she releases is wonderfully helpless and whatever remaining scraps of decorum he had left just fucking _dissolve_ as he buries his cock inside of her completely and she’s so tight and so _wet_ and holy _shit_ he should _not_ be fucking his goddamn apprentice when he’s probably more than twice her age and he absolutely should not be loving it as much as he is--

He thrusts into her a little harder and she shudders and the sound she makes is so fucking _broken_ and _needy_ and _perfect._ “Oh, _oh God,_ Shay, I can’t--”

“Yes you can,” he growls against her skin, acutely aware that she’s fucking _lying_ because her hips are rocking up to meet his and he can feel how wet she is and he can hear the slick sound of skin on skin that betrays how much she wants it-- wants _him_ \-- “You are. You’re soaking wet, love, don’t lie to me.”

She keens a little desperately and squirms as he tilts her hips up, and the angle changes and suddenly he’s even deeper inside of her and the look on her face is a deliciously pretty mixture of embarrassment and pleasure as she lets out an involuntary moan, shaky and mindless. “You’re doing so good. So fucking good,” Shay grunts, and she flushes at the praise, strung out and trembling and bordering overwhelmed by the host of new sensations as he fucks her harder, digs his fingers into her skin and sucks a bruise into the delicate skin of her collarbone. “Perfect, wish you could see yourself, see how bad you want my cock, _god,_ should’ve told me you wanted to be fucked like this, could’ve had you months ago--”

“Shay,” she gasps, nails sinking into his shoulders and back arching and breaths catching in time with his thrusts, until she can barely speak, much less form a coherent sentence, and instead of slowing down he moves one of his hands to her clit, rubs small, light circles with his thumb knowing that the pleasure is quickly becoming too much but _god_ does he want to see her come for him again--

“You’re so wet, love,” Shay groans, kissing the curve of her neck and following up with his teeth as she tenses around him-- “ _Jesus,_ you were fuckin’ made for this, weren’t you, made for taking my cock, made for being _fucked.”_

And he knows that if she were in any other state of mind she would have been too embarrassed to answer but right now she’s needy and defenseless and her moans are growing closer to whimpers as he fucks her and the only thing she can say is _yes, yes, Shay, yes, for you, only you--_

He decides right then and there that it’s his most favorite sound in the whole entire goddamn world.

She tenses around him with a fragile, broken moan when she comes, goes boneless and pliant underneath him as her body trembles with the force of it and even though she shudders with every thrust she never once tells him to stop as he fucks her faster, harder, enjoying how willing and sated she is beneath him--

There’s something about seeing her like this, seeing her willing to let herself be used solely for his own pleasure, even as she gasps and shudders and shakes with the rhythm of his body, overstimulated and hypersensitive-- there’s something about it, _fuck,_ something _good,_ and soon Shay’s rhythm is faltering and becoming erratic and he’s not going to last much longer, he realizes distantly.

He grits his teeth, mumbles half a choked-out curse, digs his fingers into her skin and then his hips stutter and falter and he barely has enough remaining brain function to remember to fucking _pull out--_

“ _Shit_ ,” he gasps, as his orgasm is practically torn from him, intense and all-consuming and so, _so_ good. “Fuck.”

There is a long moment where nothing happens, and the only sound in the room is their breathing, ragged and shallow, and he knows they both smell of sex and he knows someone is bound to find out and he knows there’s likely to be hell to pay for what is turning out to be one of the worst decisions he’s ever made in his life, but--

He doesn’t rightly care.

Shay opens his eyes to see her with her cheeks flushed and lips bruised, looking utterly spent with a trail of hickeys down her neck and bruises on her hips and his come on her stomach, and it’s everything right and wrong and sinful and perfect--

There are a thousand and one things he _should_ do, and all of them somehow revolve around apologizing and attempting to minimize the severity of what he had just done.

Instead of doing any of that, Shay kisses her, and she cups his face in her hand, smooths her thumb across the stubble on his jaw, and kisses him back.  



End file.
